Where Rivers Change Direction

Mark Spragg

ISBN 10: 0874806178 / ISBN 13: 9780874806175

Edité par University of Utah Press, 1999

A propos de cet article

no edition or printing stated only copyright date 1999, Signed only on full title page, dj shows light wear - no tears, chips, creases and original price intact.

N° de réf. du vendeur OBR-419-A

Détails bibliographiques

• Titre: Where Rivers Change Direction
• Éditeur: University of Utah Press
• Date de parution: 1999
• Langue: anglais
• ISBN à 10 chiffres: 0874806178
• ISBN à 13 chiffres: 9780874806175
• Reliure: Hardcover
• État de l'article: Fine
• État de la jaquette: Very Good
• Signé: Signed by Author(s)

A propos de ce titre

Extrait

I don't know why I've come awake. I listen for horses. I do not hear their bells, their steps on the frost-stiffened ground. I listen harder. I listen for a bear. I listen for the huffs, snorts, the coughing of a bear come into camp. There is only the deep silence of the night. I imagine a bear standing quietly by the side of my tent. A grizzly. Waiting. Aware of me. The thought of a bear thrills like a horror film escaped from its theater. My own murder stands vividly in my imagination. The dark night grinds down hard. I imagine a bear's small, dark eyes watering and intent in the cold air. I imagine a bear's nostrils flexing, breathing in my scent, its gut grumbling, whining for the taste of me. I think of a bear's teeth, its claws. I listen for the clicking of teeth. I think of the thick, dish-shaped skull--the brain inside that skull anxious for extra prehibernation calories. I pinch my chest, the back of an arm. My body seems soft as lard. I think of myself as food. I pull my woolen watch cap more tightly against my head--over my ears and eyes--and curl my face into the throat of my sleeping bag. I am wearing long underwear--top and bottom--and socks. My jeans and shirt are rolled against my feet at the bottom of the bag. I breathe in the warm, familiar scents of my body and stained clothing--a mixture of woodsmoke, leather, and horse. I think again of the thin canvas wall of the tent. It is black inside. It is black outside. If a hungry bear stands in that blackness the smell of me could draw it against the tent wall. I think of a grizzly's nose pressed against the tent. I think of its mouth watering, scrims of thinning drool sheeting from its black lips. I pull my knees into my chest and flex and imagine my body as unalterable as a knot of steel. I nearly laugh. I've become too old for bullshit fantasies of invincibility. I am now sixteen. I know that if a bear wants me for a meal it can open and spill me as effortlessly as an actual can of beans.